So Close
by TragedyBoner
Summary: "Close enough." But it wasn't close at all. BrianJustin one-shot Post 220. Slightly OOC and tweaked.


It had been one week since Justin had left.

He couldn't sleep in his bed. The pillows still smelt like Justin and he was pretty sure that Justin had left some of his underwear buried under the covers.

_Fucking prick. _

He couldn't eat at the dining room table either. He couldn't even tell you how many times they'd fucked _there_.

He couldn't even go on his computer. Justin still kept some scans of his artwork in a folder on it.

He also couldn't wear his best weekend clothes even though he was fairly sure it was a weekend day because those were the ones he'd wore to Gus' birthday when Justin had remembered the bashing, wore when he drove Justin to school, and also fucked Justin in. Well, sort of. He hadn't kept them on during fucking, but he figured it didn't really matter.

That fucking kid had ruined everything important about his life. _That_ was what mattered.

So, when Michael had called to tell him he was coming over later, he never heard beacuse the TV was on, very loudly, he might add, to drown out his pounding headache from all the booze and sleeping on his fucking couch for over a week. Without his own damn pillow, too.

Instead of laying in bed, eating fruit, fucking, and wearing any of the clothing he actually liked, he was scrunched up in the fetal position to fit on his couch, hung over and slightly stoned and his stomach growled from not having any real meals in at least thirty-six hours. Fucking kid always made the best-

No. He was not going to wallow. Brian fucking Kinney did _not_ wallow. Brian Kinney fucked and made money. That was what he was known for. Not crying like a pussy or laying around all day drinking to forget his own name while watching those stupid fucking TV stations that always had some stupid fucking movie marathon on.

Like the one on right now. The one with the the musician playing in front of crowds of fans, getting roses chucked at his ugly fucking feet.

_Click. _

Brian Kinney wasn't known for his easy-going attitude either.

_Brian Kinney_, he made himself repeat,_ is known for fucking men, doing drugs, drinking, and making money. Brian Kinney is known for fucking men, doing drugs, drinking, and making money._

So that is exactly what he should be doing. Yes, right fucking now. Starting with... drugs. Tylenol, to be more specific. For that pounding headache he still possessed. After chugging down the last few sips of beer left in his second to last pack, he forced his head back down and his eyes to shut.

Sleep was still clouding his mind, making him weary. _Fucking kid._ All of this. All of this fucking agonizing pain and suffering was because of that kid. Sunshine. Sonny Boy. Wonder Boy, as Michael called him. Otherwise known as JT to comic book geeks. Or Justin Taylor to anyone who'd attended that special night at Babylon or heard about his bashing after prom.

"Nrrgghhh."

Those boyish good looks. That sunny smile. Those award-winning ways.

The way he slept with Brian, curled into his chest, even when they _hadn't_ just fucked their brains out. The way _everyone_, all of his own Goddamned friends for _years_, decided to up and accept him at the first hint or inkling that the kid might be staying a little longer then any other Twink had. The way he smiled at Brian... after prom, in the parking lot....

---

He wakes up groggy and disoriented, jerking his eyes open, blindly grabbing and reaching out for something - _someone_ who just wasn't there.

_Justin. _

He dreamt about the bashing _again_. He doesn't fucking understand how this started up again after over a year but here he is again, laying down, beating himself up. He remembers when Jennifer had told him that Justin had been having nightmares for weeks after he'd woken up and all he really wanted to do was to be touched... by Brian.

Brian had let him curl up into him from that first night on. And he'd never regretted it. Until now.

_Fucking kid._

He's not here. And... it's God knows what fucking time of day. The lights are all off and the curtains pulled since a week ago when Brian had started having trouble sleeping in his own bed alone, so every minute looks like midnight. He'd guess he'd never noticed how big it was until there was one person missing.

When he'd talked to a shrink about it, as instructed by Debbie who had brought by food when she'd heard he'd taken time off from work _("You look like _shit_, Brian."_), he'd said that Brian was suffering from a mild case of depression and insomnia due to post-traumatic stress.

_Bullshit_, he'd thought. The bashing happened a fucking year ago. Why was he dreaming about it _now_?

_"Brian, why do you _think_ you can't sleep? Is it a purely physical reason? For lack of comfort alone?" _

Brian had always hated shrinks and the way they spoke, like they needed to sound so fucking high and mighty all the Goddamned time.

_He shrugged. "It's not just that I'm not comfortable. It's the nightmares. I don't understand why they'd start up again _now_."_

_"Have you recently had something emotionally strenuous take place in your life?"_

_"I wouldn't think a break-up of a non-conventional couple would count, right?"_

_"Sorry?"_

_"My... _partner _and I aren't together anymore. He's seeing someone else now."_

_"My condolences."_

_Long pause. "So that has nothing to do with my nightmares, right?"_

_"I wouldn't necessarily say that. Have you, assuming you feel comfortable enough to tell me, felt like this break-up altered your life significantly? Did it make you re-think your lifestyle or future?"_

_No answer. _

_"You said that these nightmares started up _again_. When did they first begin?"_

_"When Justin got bashed."_

_"How did you deal with it then?"_

_"When his mother let me see him again he spent the night at my place. He was having nightmares too. But I never told him that I had any. Both of ours stopped when he moved back in with me."_

_"I'm sorry, what did you mean when you said that his mother had to permit this? If you don't mind."_

_"He wasn't technically legal when we were first... together. He got bashed on his prom night. He was bashed when I was within a few yards. She blamed it on me."_

_"So, you took him to prom and while you were there, Justin got hurt? And his mother had initially blamed you for it?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Was she right to fault you?"_

_Long pause. "Partly. I... saw Hobbs coming but I couldn't get to him in time."_

_"That doesn't sound like you should have been faulted."_

_"The judge said that we provoked him with our dancing. He got off with community service. Justin almost died."_

_"That must have been very difficult for you."_

_Shrug._

_"How did you cope?"_

_Snort. "Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. I visited him, though, in the hospital but he never knew about it."_

_"You never told him you came to see him this one time? Why?"_

_"I went to see him every night, actually. Only his mother, Jennifer, knew."_

_"She never said anything to Justin?"_

_"No."_

_Pause. "Did the drugs, alcohol, and sex help you cope?"_

_"Temporarily... sometimes. Michael was the only one who could get me out of Babylon's back room during all of that."_

_"Michael is your best friend, correct?"_

_"Since junior high."_

_"What does he think of your current situation?"_

_"I haven't spoke to him."_

_"He doesn't know?"_

_"No, he _saw_."_

_"Saw what?"_

_"Saw Justin leave... with Ethan."_

_"Ethan is Justin's new partner?"_

_Shrug._

_"Do you not wish to talk about this?"_

_Shrug._

_"Well, our time is up for today. But Brian, if you could, I'd like you to think about the cause of your nightmares returning due to stress and life changes before our next meeting. Would you mind if I asked you one more question, though?"_

_Pause._

_"I know that I've not spent many sessions with you but I can tell that you're not the kind of person to settle down easily. Did Justin change the way you thought about that?"_

_Long pause. "He... he left because I wasn't loving enough. He always wanted me to say that I loved him. It's not that I _don't_, I just...."_

_"Can't express it in words?"_

_"I miss him," Brian said bravely. _

_"I know you do."_

---

It had been one week since Justin had left.

"My type?"

And Brian still hadn't spoken to Michael.

"Petite, blonde, young. Longish hair. Pale."

And Michael still didn't understand why.

"Oh, and... money is no object."

Sure, Brian and Justin had been getting along pretty well before the incident at Babylon but that didn't mean that Brian Kinney had to go and get_ sad _about it. It just wasn't in his nature to actually _miss_ someone. Unless Brian wasn't in town or wasn't speaking to him for some other reason, Michael just couldn't see why Brian was avoiding him, or at the very least, not making any attempt at speaking with him.

"Mmmhhhmmm. An hour is fine."

Knock, knock, knock.

No answer.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Hold the fuck on!"

Well, at least he _sounded_ like himself.

Instead of waiting like Brian probably wanted him to, Michael just slid the door open using the slit that was already partly ajar. Brian _never_ locked his door when he was home. It was just too inconvenient to rush back and forth to let all of his daily visitors in when he could just leave the loft unlocked.

Michael slowly walked in, steering himself automatically to Brian's desk where he sat, holding his phone to his ear by means of his shoulder, legs strung up on his desk, overlapping. Wearing only black briefs. He didn't so much as glance at Michael, which was unusual enough, besides the fact that a couple of one hundred dollar bills were piled up on top of one another, touching Brian's elbow.

"Brian?"

Brian finally looked up, holding up one finger and listening for a few seconds before he nodded. "Yes, midnight. I'll have the cash up front." Then he hung up the phone.

Michael snorted. "Aren't you mysterious?"

Brian fiddled with the money, pushed back his chair, slung his feet over, and stood. He said nothing, just walked to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer, sloshing it messily over it's rim before pouring it in.. the last glass from Brian's shelf. Michael spotted at least seven... no, _eight _dirty glasses already dominating the sink. Avoiding the mess, which only continued to make itself more well known from every direction, he looked from the coffee table, stocked with every drug known to man to his assortments of wines, looking scarce. The only clean bit of space in sight was the corner where Justin's laptop used to be, leaving behind a baren section of wall.

Brian made his way to the couch, stepping over blankets strewn across the floor, and lit up. As he grunted sitting down, pulling something that mildly resembled a pair of navy underwear from under himself and staring at them for awhile, he sank into the cushions and continued to ignore Michael.

"So, how's everything here?" He asked, though it was clearly unnecessary.

Brian shrugged. "Fucking fabulous. Why?"

"Well, there's ziplock bags of E on the dining room table and pot on the coffee table, booze all over the place, dirty dishes piled up everywhere, and... why doesn't this blanket have come on it?" Michael ranted, coming to a close only when he spotted no curious stains on the blankets surrounding the couch and wooden floor.

"What the hell have you been doing, camping out on your couch?"

Instead of an answer, Michael only got more questions. And insults.

"You sound just like your fucking mother, Mikey. Lighten up."

"What's _wrong_ with you? Have you even showered?" Michael accused.

"What the fuck does it matter? Isn't it Saturday?" Brian took a hit off his joint then tried to pass it to Michael. "Christ, this shit is strong," he mumbled.

Michael pushed it away. "Nevermind, who were you just talking to?"

"Business call, Mikey."

"Bullshit."

Brian groaned and laid down, covering his eyes with his arm. "Ughh."

"Christ! What the fuck is the matter with you? If you miss him so much why don't you just go find him?" Michael exploded.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"_Please_, Brian. 'Petite, blond, young.' How stupid do you think I am?"

"Do you really want an answer?"

Michael ignored him, bending over to try to clean up. He grimaced when he touched a used condom and flinched when he realized why Brian would describe Justin to someone on the phone.

"You were calling for a hustler weren't you? _Weren't you?_"

No answer.

"Brian, why don't you just try talking to him," Michael coaxed, meaning to sound softer. "I'm sure he would-"

"Would what, Michael?" Brian finally sat up, glassy eyes going wide with anger and intent. "Come rushing back into my arms so we could live happily ever after?"

It was hard to look Brian in the eye.

"Tell me that he was wrong to leave when it was always what he said he would do? When it was _his_ choice and the _right_ choice? What do you think talking to him is going to fucking accomplish?"

"Brian-"

"No, Michael! Go home! Go home to your wife and leave me to my evening."

Michael stared at Brian until he was shot another look and finally, ignored again in favor of his arm. Michael dropped the condom and the wrappers he'd been holding and gave a resigned sigh as he headed toward the door. Just as he'd reached it, a knock errupted from the other side.

Michael opened the door, sliding it open to see, in full view, a hustler who looked remarkably like Justin from the shaggy blond hair and terribly pale skin to the small figure and young appearance. Michael frowned.

"Is this the residence of a Brian Kinney?"

"Tell him to talk to Justin, would you? If anyone can get through to him it's you... well, him."

The hustler nodded like he thought that maybe Michael was crazy and when Michael left him standing in the doorway, he ducked in the stairway for a minute, if only to hear what would happen next. Shortly after Michael's footsteps had faded, he heard Brian's feet pad across the wooden floors and lean against the loft's door, wearing only a white tank top and the navy underwear he'd been sitting on before. They looked a little small. Brian gave the hustler a once-over.

"Is this what you were looking for?" The hustler referred to himself.

"Close enough."

---

The hustler was blonde, petite, pale, and young. But he was timid, wrong. He moved slowly and unsurerly. Justin was passionate, intimate, intense, and outspoken. This man was paid to keep quiet.

Brian stretched, pulling on Justin's disgarded underwear, following Michael out of the door only when he couldn't hear his voice anymore, though he did catch Michael's last words.

_"Tell him to talk to Justin, would you? If anyone can get through to him it's you... well, him."_

It had hurt more than Brian had anticipated to hear Justin's name out loud.

"Is this what you were looking for?" The hustler gustured to himself soundlessly.

"Close enough."

But it wasn't close at all.


End file.
